


Pagan Poetry

by perihadion



Series: Schism [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Love/Hate, M/M, Multi, Past Relationship(s), Touch-Starved, touch-sensitive beskar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:09:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22273087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perihadion/pseuds/perihadion
Summary: Three little scenarios exploring the physical intimacy of assessing someone’s armour for damage.1: Paz Vizla (Din/Paz)2: Cara Dune (Din/Cara)
Relationships: Cara Dune/The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), The Armorer & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Paz Vizla
Series: Schism [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632778
Comments: 21
Kudos: 250
Collections: Movies





	1. Paz Vizla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Din returns to the Covert the Armorer has already retired but Paz is still awake. Pre-series.

It had been several weeks since Din had returned to the Covert; he had encountered relatively little trouble during his travels but it was time now to see the Armorer, pay his tithe, and have his armour examined. He was also — if he was being honest — exhausted. It was late when he landed on Nevarro and the bazaar was deserted. At moments like this, when he was in public but there was nobody around, he was struck sometimes with the almost overwhelming desire to risk everything by removing his helmet. It was like standing at the edge of a precipice and gripped with the intoxicating desire to jump.

Instead he looked around and, sure that he was being watched by nobody, descended into the tunnels which led to the Covert. It was quiet underground too, most of the Mandalorians having retired to their quarters. He slowed down as he approached the forge, recognising the large form of the Mandalorian standing guard at its entrance. It was Paz Vizla.

“Has the Armorer retired?” he asked. Paz crossed his arms and nodded. “Then, I will return in the morning.”

“There’s no need for that,” Paz responded, annoyed. He beckoned Din into the forge. Din hesitated. But Paz was right: it was ridiculous to wait and trouble the Armorer over this, and he knew that Paz would only add it to his ever-growing mental list of ways that Din had failed to measure up. One more way that Din was emotionally weak. One more way that Din was a coward.

He nodded, and walked past Paz into the forge. He felt the larger man line up behind him. It was a strange sensation, to be in this position with Paz again. There had been a time when Paz routinely checked his armour’s integrity — but those days were long gone. Paz handled him roughly, as if he wanted to agitate any wounds Din was carrying, make him cry out with pain, prove that Din was as weak physically as he was emotionally.

At the same time it was almost intoxicating to be this close to Paz again, to breathe in his scent, to stand together in one spot without fighting. It felt like at any moment the larger man might put his hands on Din’s shoulders — a heavy sensation, which had always made Din feel like Paz was trying to anchor him to the earth, maybe that he was trying to prevent him from leaving — or around his waist, and pull him back into him. Din remembered that, when he wanted, Paz could be astonishingly tender.

Paz was running his hands over Din’s pauldrons, and Din closed his eyes. He wondered if Paz felt it too, this old connection they had, the secret code they had once shared. When Paz placed a large hand on his backplate he sighed, reflexively, before he could stop himself. But if Paz heard he said nothing, and Din was grateful. It was excruciating for him to allow Paz to search for his vulnerabilities. It always had been. That was their problem.

It was all so familiar to him. He knew that his body was a well-known country to Paz, who ran his hands over it like a cartographer drawing a map. There was a tear in his sleeve, which Paz pushed a fingertip into. “Sloppy,” he said. But he didn’t withdraw his finger straight away. The sensation of being touched, especially by Paz, was overwhelming for Din. He felt the fingertip slowly run over the skin of his arm — checking for a wound, maybe — and then withdraw. Paz placed both hands over his biceps, and slowly ran them down the length of his arms. Another time this would have been more than perfunctory and Din might have sunk back into his embrace. But things had changed between them, irrevocably.

“You seem to be intact,” Paz said. His voice sounded rougher than usual. Din was glad. He hoped this was as difficult for Paz as it was for him. He hoped that Paz still felt something for him aside from rage and disdain. “Turn around,” Paz instructed, and Din did as he said. Paz avoided his gaze as he ran his hands over the chestplate — carefully, as this was the most important piece of equipment, fingers finding the edges and digging between them and his undershirt.

“You’re very thorough,” Din said. Paz grunted, and jerked him forward, tugging roughly at the beskar to ensure it was secure.

“Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you,” he responded, with an acid bite to his voice, “when you’ve taken such pains to protect yourself.”

He ran his hands over the vambraces, and then knelt to look at the cuisses. It would be so trivial for Din to reach out to Paz and place a hand on his helmet — and then maybe they could start to make amends — but he wouldn’t, couldn’t do it. Paz was right. He was a coward.

Then it was over. Paz stood again, towering over Din once more. They eyed each other for a long time. Din felt desperate for this moment not to end, desperate for something to say to prolong it, to change things — to change the past. But there was nothing. There never had been.

“Everything is intact,” Paz said. “I will inform the Armorer. You can go now.”

Din found that he had no words for him, and only nodded. He paused at the entrance and, without turning back to look at Paz, quietly said, “Thank you.”

“This is the Way,” Paz responded as Din left.

“This is the Way,” he agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [twitter](http://twitter.com/theoceanblooms) or [tumblr](http://spectroscopes.tumblr.com)! If you really liked this chapter, it would be lovely if you could [reblog](https://www.tumblr.com/reblog/190281120334/UxhM0jb3) on tumblr.


	2. Cara Dune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While making preparations to leave Arvala-7, Din asks Cara to help him check his armour. Set during 1x07.

While Kuiil crafted the Child’s new bed Din approached Cara. “I need to check my armour’s integrity,” he said.

She looked him up and down and shrugged. “Looks all right to me.”

He sighed. She was in all likelihood right but, “We don’t know what we’re walking into,” he said. “I would like to be sure.” She met his gaze, behind his visor, and nodded. She downed the contents of a cup of what he was sure was not tea and stood. “Not here,” he said, nodding towards the doorway, and turned to leave before she could say something crude about wanting to get her alone.

(Though the truth was that he did want to be alone with her, in a way that he could not explain and tried not to think about.)

She followed him out of the tent into the cool dusk. The sun had long since dipped past the horizon, casting stained fingers of red and purple into the darkening sky, but there was enough light remaining for this task which was conducted more by touch than by sight. “Just check for cracks, dents, sparking — any damage,” he instructed her.

“Yeah,” she said, avoiding his gaze as she started by placing her hands flat against his chest plate. “I think I can figure it out.” He had expected some comment from her about getting to feel him up but the tension seemed to have settled even on her inner world because she said nothing as she ran her hands over his armour. He wondered if this was how she had been before a drop: quiet, serious — focused on the task ahead.

He was glad that his helmet hid the way he closed his eyes as she ran her hands over him, although he felt that he was vibrating. “This is a Mandalorian ritual,” he said, to break the tension. “We do this before heading into battle and after returning.”

She nodded and, stepping back, indicated that he should turn around, which he did. The sky seemed to stretch out forever before him as she placed her hands on his back, and he felt himself relax into her touch.

“How long as it been since someone touched you like this?” she said.

He stiffened a little at the question but she seemed not to be making fun of him: her hands still worked at the fastenings, she still ran them over the beskar in search of vulnerabilities. He felt her touch as the lightest vibration against his skin. “It is rare,” he admitted.

He felt her hands run down his arms and over the vambraces. When she knelt to check his legs he realised that she had chosen this position to avoid kneeling before him. “That’s not good,” she said, as she stood, placing her hands on his hips where they lingered a little longer than seemed necessary. His breath caught in his throat as her fingers curled against the hem of his shirt, and she drew them slowly up his sides, over the cloth.

“What are you doing?” he said, his voice rougher than intended.

“I’m touching you,” she said, as she ran her hands down again, tracing lines through his shirt with her finger tips. He closed his eyes and let her.

He felt her knee press into the back of his insistently and she put her hands on his shoulders. “Drop,” she said.

“Why?”

“Just trust me,” she said, and he let her push him to his knees. He felt her line up behind him and put her hands on his neck as if to choke him, then she pressed her fingers into the stiff muscles. “You’re all knotted up,” she said.

He let his head fall forward as she worked at the tension in his neck and he felt a little of the tension knotting his gut dissipate with it — as if there were a complex braid running from his stomach to his neck, and she was untying it. “You’re not gonna lose him,” she said. He grunted, partly in response, partly because she had found one of his worst knots. “I just don’t want to go into this with someone who’s wound so tight his head’s about to pop off.”

Her hands stilled and then she pushed her fingers under his cowl to touch his bare skin, sending shivers down his spine. He thought he heard her sigh. He leaned back and she ran her hands over his helmet.

“I don’t know if you ever did this as a kid,” she said, “but there’s this thing you can do where someone makes a fist on your head, and then spreads their fingers out, and it feels like someone has cracked an egg on you and all the yolk is running down your head.”

He felt her demonstrate. Inside the helmet it was not quite the same but he found himself chuckling anyway.

“There you go,” she said, stepping back so that he could stand up. He felt the loss of her touch as he stood and faced her.

“Thank you,” he said.

She made a non-committal gesture and then said, “What are friends for?” before giving his shoulder a bit of a push.

He followed a few steps behind her back into Kuiil’s tent, where the Child was watching the Ughnaught put the final touches on his crib.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [twitter](http://twitter.com/theoceanblooms) or [tumblr](http://spectroscopes.tumblr.com)! If you really liked this chapter, it would be lovely if you could [reblog](https://www.tumblr.com/reblog/190814317179/2AUYDoY7) on tumblr.


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